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KEVIN DOYLE DROVE up to East Harlem in an older Toyota he’d located in Brooklyn. He’d originally thought he’d need to hot-wire the car, but he’d found a key stashed under the floor mat. His plan was to return the Toyota to the same spot in Brooklyn when he was done. His conscience had been nagging at him. He didn’t like the idea of taking other people’s stuff. Especially a car like this, which was probably all the owner could afford. Maybe he’d even stuff a couple of twenties in the console. The owner would probably think they had lost the cash at some point. It would make their day.

In East Harlem, Doyle drove between two different bars that had been identified as hangouts for two of his targets. Both targets were in the drug trade. Both were in their fifties. And both had horrendous criminal records.

One of them, Carlos Rios, had done nine years for manslaughter after stabbing a man in the throat with a broken bottle at a bar. The other was Oscar Tass. His criminal record read more like a guy who went along with the crowd, no matter how stupid the idea. He’d been arrested four different times for being involved in attacks. Always in a group. Never alone. He ended up doing four years upstate for the last attack, in which he and three buddies beat a homeless Navy vet so badly the man lost an eye and had a collapsed lung.

Doyle had no elaborate plans for these two hits, but he was hoping his targets would be together. It would be deeply satisfying to handle two of these scumbags at once.

There was no need to disguise anything with these guys. He didn’t have to set up any elaborate scenario to confuse the cops. People in the drug trade being killed by gunfire was not going to attract undue attention or speculation. Doyle’s only goal was not to be identified. He had a Mets baseball cap and superwide sunglasses he planned to use to cover his face. It wasn’t perfect, but he had learned that during a shooting, people tended to panic and not pick up on details.

As Doyle drove, he couldn’t help but think about Tammy. He fantasized about what life would be like with her. Really, with any woman. One word he always came back to was “peaceful.” That is what he longed for. Peace and quiet. He had traveled enough and taken plenty of risks. Doyle felt he had earned a quiet retirement. Maybe after he was done with this job. At least that’s what he hoped. Why did she have to screw everything up with her crazy idea that I kill her uncle?

About the fifth time he drove past the bar known as Caballo Loco, a.k.a. Crazy Horse, Doyle thought he spotted one of his targets through the window. The guy was just over six feet tall, with dark, neat hair and a trimmed goatee. Yep, it was definitely Carlos Rios.

Doyle scanned the area, then parked on the next block. He walked through an alley that came up alongside the bar. He came around a giant dumpster and froze. Rios was in the alley, standing not thirty feet in front of him. Doyle slipped back behind the dumpster and tried to get a surreptitious look.

Through the dappled light from the bar, Doyle realized that Rios was urinating against the wall of the building next door. And there was someone else with him, but it wasn’t Oscar Tass. It was a woman.

Doyle shook his head. Even though he’d lived in barracks with dozens of other men, he still hated to have anyone near him when he went to the bathroom. He couldn’t imagine carrying on a conversation while he peed.

Doyle kept peering around the dumpster, judging how long it would take him to sprint back to his stolen Toyota. He weighed the options. If he opened fire from here, he’d risk not only hitting the woman but also having a witness walking around.

As Doyle hesitated, the woman looked up and noticed him. In a loud voice, she said, “Hey, what are you doing, you pervert?”

Rios turned quickly. He reached behind his back and pulled out a pistol. When Doyle looked closer, he saw the woman had a gun too. What the hell?

Then a bullet pinged off the dumpster just above his head.